Page 83 of John Eyre

“I certainly don’t seek the man out.”

“Good.” Her arm grazed his again, warm and feminine. “Did you miss me at all?”

John looked straight ahead as they walked. He was painfully aware of her. Her womanly scent and shape, so endlessly alluring. The touch of her sleeve, and the soft rustle of her skirts, brushing against his legs. It was intimate. Unconsciously seductive. “I haven’t any right to miss you.”

“If you believe that, then your memory must have failed you.”

“My memory is in perfectly good order,” he replied. And then: “The boys missed you.”

“Bah. The boys are as resilient as I am. They’ll muddle through with or without me. It’s you they’ve come to rely on. See how they look to you?”

“They’re good lads. I hope I’ve been able to help them a little.”

She laughed suddenly. “Is this John Eyre speaking? This humble creature?”

He bent his head, failing to suppress a short laugh of his own. “Yes, yes. I know. But I do try to be humble about my teaching.”

“You’re an excellent tutor, as we both know.” The smile remained on her lips, but the one in her eyes faded. “I daresay you’re an excellent man.”

“Mrs. Rochester…”

“But that will keep, I trust.” She turned abruptly back to the house. “I must go and change out of this dusty habit. Good afternoon.”

He stood, still as a statue, as she walked away. It took a moment for him to remember to reply. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“Bulgaria,” John said. The library curtains were open, the midday sun illuminating the globe in its heavy wooden frame. “Can you find it for me?”

Stephen spun the globe one quarter turn, his finger tracing over the European continent. He pointed to his homeland. It wasn’t the first time John had asked him to locate it on a map.

“Excellent,” John said. “And you, Peter? Can you show me England?”

Peter used both hands to turn the globe in its frame, seeming to enjoy the spinning of it more than the actual lesson.

John stopped the motion with his hand as Britain came into view. “It’s here. Do you see?”

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour, just as a shuffling noise at the door announced the arrival of Sophie. She was nothing if not punctual.

Stephen and Peter looked to her with anticipation. By this time of day, their stomachs were all but growling.

“Very well,” John said. “Tidy your books, and then you may break for luncheon.”

The two boys hurriedly organized their desks before racing off with Sophie to eat their small repast of toasted bread and cheese.

John watched them go, half smiling.

Mrs. Rochester’s return from London had been followed by three weeks of relative peace. He’d initially expected her to set out again after a few days’ time. Thornfield wasn’t a place in which she seemed capable of finding peace.

But she hadn’t gone.

She’d remained in residence. Even better, she’d taken to summoning him to tea each evening in the drawing room. There they engaged in long conversations punctuated by sharpness and humor. She took delight in sparring with him, and he’d come to enjoy it, too, almost as much as she did. It was becoming his greatest pleasure to laugh with her, and to make her smile.

The more he knew her, the more he found in her to esteem. She was a fascinating woman, regal and capricious. But it was her strength that defined her. He admired her for it. More than admired her. He respected her.

And that wasn’t all.

He’d already known he was physically attracted to her. What he hadn’t anticipated was feeling such tenderness. Such warm regard. Indeed, his affection for her grew by the day. But he dared not reveal the extent of his devotion. He was resolved to guard his heart—and his position in her household.

His insistence on clinging to a degree of formality between them seemed to needle her. So, she needled him in return, making veiled references to her impending marriage.